Admission
by BandGeek58407
Summary: Suddenly you understand how women can fall for him like dominos because he's so intoxicating you can't think of anything else...You wonder absently if he's changed his name to Vicodin and yours to Addict." Post-Mayfield. H/W


You're walking slowly, as you always do now, but something makes you stop, a feeling that you're being watched—and you are. At first you wonder if you've started to hallucinate too because no one said anything about him returning, yet he's here, reclining in the chair behind his desk and contemplating his oversized tennis ball like an absent thought. You catch his eyes through the glass walls and grin.

Hello, it says—you say—and he nods, limps, opens the door. He doesn't seem any different from how he used to be, just the same but without the subtle glances to the form plaguing his senses, and that forces your grin into an actual smile for the briefest moment.

He doesn't smile, but he rarely does. So you ignore it, though you wish you couldn't. And it turns out that you can't.

"Want to come back to my place?" you offer, and he mumbles in acceptance. No more words are spoken and you don't try to push the conversation. This is the new normal, for now, and for those few bits of time before the summer. He always said that he'd be happier if you shut up, but that doesn't appear to be true. You have so much to say but so little that he would want to hear and you can only hope that—you stop your thoughts as you both climb into your car. You don't know what to hope for.

Certainty is a luxury and you spent all your money over the summer on loneliness and worry.

And postcards—you spent lots of money on postcards, ink, lead, pencil sharpeners to try to find whatever you lost, but you never bought stamps. You never meant to.

When you finally arrive at your apartment and unlock the door, he hobbles to the couch and flops down as usual, looks around as usual, says nothing. You stare at the back of his head before hanging up your keys and shuffling into his line of view and rubbing the back of your neck and examining his shoes and _yearning_ for a couple syllables. You have to supply them so your chest doesn't explode.

"You probably haven't eaten anything decent in a while," you say, barely keeping eye contact, sweeping left, him, right, him, left—slowly, and it's normal. He doesn't react like it isn't normal, so you assume that's good. "You want me to cook something?"

He remains silent.

You sigh and want to scream. That place was supposed to help him, and doubts begin to flood your lungs. "You want to say something?"

"This isn't awkward?" he says in a normal tone. "Y'know, the whole I-just-got-out-of-the-loony-bin thing? You're clearly acting like it's any other day though even _I_ admit it's not, so that means you must be squirming." He pauses. "Correct me if I'm wrong."

This time you remain silent.

You grin to yourself as you walk to the kitchen and pull out the pots and pans, homemade batter mix and eggs. The idea that he didn't mock you for that squirming is all-consuming—does he care or did Mayfield knock the jibes right out of him? You know now to hope for the former. Without the mocking, he's not House; he's anyone, and anyone isn't someone you know.

"Do you need any help?" he calls, and you stop cold and swivel around to stare incredulously.

"I must be hearing things," you say slowly. An egg is wrapped by your fingers in mid-air, an inch above the edge of the bowl.

"We haven't spoken or seen each other in nearly three months," he says and joins you by the sink. "I've done enough sitting and thinking alone to last me into next year. What are you making?"

You know now to hope he remembers what you're talking about lest you risk seeming as obsessive as you very well may be. "Those macadamia pancakes Chase told me you fawned over."

"I did not _fawn_ over them," he says defensively and you fight the urge to laugh because you know he's lying. "He was upset that I didn't share."

You beat the batter until the powder is gone and the egg yolks are no longer jiggling yellow globs; the repetitive motion is somewhat soothing even considering his looming over your shoulder. "He told me you slapped his hand away."

He shrugs, less than you expected. "It was either that or yell 'Swiper, no swiping,' and that doesn't actually work in the real world. Never trust preschool shows," he says, leaning a tad closer to you, and you try to conceal that you have no idea what he's referencing.

You ask him to get the macadamia nuts out of the pantry, and he responds normally—"Sure, make the cripple fetch your goods," a roll of the eyes…an upturn of the lips? He's enjoying this, and you know now to hope he continues to be happy, or at least less miserable. For a fleeting second you want to know how things went in Mayfield but at the same time you don't. Places like that make its residents bare their souls, and he does all he can to never be that naked. You would violate him by asking. So you don't—you accept that side at any rate.

Other sides pick away at your concentration, little by little, so now, after the summer, you're covered in shards and you can't find the rock you started with. You want answers, you want glue. You want to understand the one person who matters more than anything.

"Why do you keep a huge bag of macadamia nuts in your pantry?" he asks once he's retrieved the nuts. You decline to answer and you know it will bother him, but not that much. You're too busy planning how to pose the question that you are all too aware will probably make this perfect evening end in disaster, but you also know you both have survived worse together. You know you shouldn't be afraid to inquire.

But you are.

"House." You stop stirring the batter.

"Wilson. Now that we've got that straight—"

"Why did you hallucinate Cuddy helping you detox?" You stare at each other and the stove clicks when it reaches the desired temperature. "And not me," you clarify. "I-I'm just curious."

He sighs. "Why do you want to talk about this now?"

"I…I'm curious," you repeat. You don't want to give the real reason, simmering impatiently under everything, desperate to reveal itself in at least a subtext but you beat it down every time.

"I don't know why it was her," he says in that voice that adds, _And I don't know why I would._

"I wouldn't have lectured you," you insist quietly.

"Right," he scoffs sarcastically. "What are you, jealous?"

You have to set the batter bowl on the counter because you don't want to mop the floor when you drop it—you know you would if you kept it in your shaking hands. And you know now to hope that you don't do something incredibly stupid. Anything would fall under that umbrella at this point: he knows even in his sarcasm he hit close to the bulls-eye since you haven't said a word.

You want to rewind the past five minutes.

Or even better: fast forward until you've figured out what to do. This silence is killing you and you want the diagnosis.

"See…" he says, "the thing about conversations is that the other person actually replies to what the first person—"

You know now to hope he doesn't kill you.

In a fluid motion, you throw the spoon into the sink and hear it clatter distantly behind you, close the distance and mash your faces together possessively. You don't care that this isn't the reply he was referring to; you don't care about anything but him.

Suddenly you understand how women can fall for him like dominos because he's so damn intoxicating you can't think of anything else, the next second or the wall slamming into his back or consequences or what have you. You wonder absently if he's changed his name to Vicodin and yours to Addict. You think in moments, not sentences—

Forever

Caress

Tongue

Hands

Cheek

Together

Forever forever forever

You want to stop crying, but first you have to stop thinking of Amber and Cuddy. And you'd also have to stop being so happy. So you don't wipe the shiny tracks away; if he won't bare his soul to you, then you will to him. And you don't mind—this is what you wanted, what you realized and tried to block away and rationalize.

This is everything you've wanted, and you need to tell him.

But to tell, you need to breathe.

And you break away. Your faces are inches apart and it's agonizing to be so close and the air between you sizzles with nothing that can be placed. "Yes," you gasp. "I'm jealous."


End file.
